


Forevermore

by Sadistrix



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Berserker Thor, M/M, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadistrix/pseuds/Sadistrix
Summary: He may know nothing else when the rage takes him, but even after all these years, his brother can still mark Loki’s touch. How flattering. How integral to this entire endeavor.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



Loki disposes of the guards with a flick of his wrist. Let them slumber; he seeks the beast they keep. He is a whisper among the shadows, dancing through each dark crevice that would have concealed his brother from him. At long last, he has found this place. Once again he might claim what is rightfully his, whilst Odin sleeps and Frigga allows herself to be deceived, heart heavy for the fate of her golden, glorious son.

He creeps through the cold, stone labyrinth, far deeper than any light could penetrate were it the height of day with only his magic for guidance. A lesser creature would be lost within moments, the cavernous dungeon itself conspiring to direct Loki back the way he had came, but that’s an easy trick. Child’s play, compared to what is to come. He can feel Thor’s presence here, a blinding, pulsing heat at the maze’s center, long before his eyes detect the glimmer of witchlight from up ahead.

The chains Odin wrought to contain his brother are nearly as beautiful as the monster they hold.

Loki draws near and trails his fingers down a length of them just to feel how the powerful enchantment will flare to life beneath his touch, and it doesn’t disappoint. Heat races through his veins like a bolt of his disgraced brother’s lightning… and then again, quickening his blood like kindling when Thor shudders and moans. “Loki,”

His skin is slick with sweat, but for now, his eyes are clear. They find him in the darkness as easily as though Loki wore no illusion. He may know nothing else when the rage takes him, but even after all these years, his brother can still mark Loki’s touch. How flattering. How integral to this entire endeavor.

He doesn’t acknowledge Thor’s greeting. Loki selects another section of the cursed chain and takes his time examining it, letting the warmth spread through him and stoke his courage. It’s truly a pity that Loki plans to destroy the enchantment. If nothing else, for the way Thor grows restless beneath his hands, twisting in his bonds as though they were the caress of a lover.

“Are you here to free me, or to slay me?” he asks gruffly, the words drawn from deep in his throat as though he has not had occasion to use them in quite some time. They are jagged and rusty, and they pierce Loki somewhere deep.

Loki laughs. “I have never been lauded a slayer of monsters, Thor.”

Thor’s breath quickens, and Loki catches a momentary glimpse of the danger that lies beneath his golden, shining skin. Memory has not served it well enough, though neither has it served his brother. Loki has to refocus himself on the task at hand, gripping the burning metal hard enough to distract him from wanting to remember the bared skin beneath.

“Do they laud you now? Why do you come for me?”

“Can I not miss my brother?” Loki attempts to redirect him. He doesn’t need Thor deciding that it is time to fight before he’s finished formulating the magic that will tether his brother to him and allow them both to weather the storm. “Did you think I did not pine when you were stolen away from me? Did you not… ache,” his fingers slip from the enchanted bindings, in free fall against Thor’s skin, “for the moment I would find you again?”

“I dreamed it,” Thor breathes, “have dreamed it each eternity in this prison.”

So he knew, as Loki did, that Loki could never be compelled to stay away. Odin had forbidden it - Loki’s gaze swept over his brother’s taut form, memorising the chained prince as he would likely never be again, and he licked his lips - that alone was enough to make Loki want something as though he burned for it.

No amount of discipline could keep his cock from growing full at the sight of Thor desperate this way, and the teasing brush of fabric against him as he moved coaxed no small amount of heat to his skin. Loki had forgone underclothes, forgone even his usual ornamentation. Not even vanity could bring him to put one more obstacle between them, and it would take all of him to tame the berserker.

(Thor would take all of him soon enough).

But surely Heimdall would alert the guards that something was amiss at any moment now, or try, at least, and discover that someone had put them out of commission. And he was not yet finished probing Thor’s restraints for what knowledge they had to offer him.

“Hush,” he admonished his brother, more forcibly than he’d intended. “We shall consummate my latest treason when I’ve succeeded, provided you manage not to kill me first.”

The berserker was a creature of magic, and Loki had long hypothesised that Thor could be taught to control it, to master it in the same way that Loki had taken control of the arcane arts he now deployed, weaving seidr along the hard cut lines of his brother’s form. Foolishness, perhaps, but so long as Loki could contain him now, they’d have centuries to put that to the test.

He draws a slim dagger from a pocket of shadow cast by what little clothing he wears and Loki can hear Thor’s breath hitch at the sight of the blade. “Do you you trust me?” Loki asks slyly.

“If I remember correctly, I would be fool to,” Thor teases him in return. He does not tense, but his eyes have locked upon the shining metal far too intently for Loki’s comfort. There again is the reminder of the violence, poised, so dangerously close beneath his skin.

Loki brings the flat of the blade to Thor’s chest, once again attempting to gather his courage. He lets it rest for a moment where he can feel the steady pounding of Thor’s heartbeat reverberating up into his grasp. “If I told you I must cut your heart out,” Loki tests him, “that, to control you I must possess you more fully than we have ever possessed each other, past all point of recourse... would you still, I wonder.”

Thor’s eyes narrow. “Would you have me trade one imprisonment for another?” There is a plea in it, though he would never beg for mercy; his brother wants out of these chains badly enough to let Loki take any advantage he so chooses. Loki has to catch his breath.

It’s such a heady thing: his brother’s fate, his brother’s _freedom_ , in his hands. Neither of them are naive enough to believe that Loki won’t, in a fit of capriciousness or jealousy, unable to believe that Thor could ever agree to something so foolish for any reason but his own lack of foresight, lash out as viciously as he is capable.

“Only blood,” Loki hears himself say over the pounding in his ears. He isn’t sure whether the berserker or the magic he’s about to work scares him more.

Thor’s voice is a rumble from deep within his chest, not quite animal, not entirely man. “Take it.”

Loki twists the knife until the sharp edge rests against Thor’s sternum, just a touch too little pressure to pierce his skin. Thor’s eyes flick up to meet his. There is no uncertainty there, though Loki wishes there was. He makes the cut.

For a single moment, Thor’s eyes blaze a bright, electric blue, his entire body gone rigid and straining at the chains that bind him.

Loki forces himself to hold his ground and watches as his own enchantment takes ahold: undulating lines of magic that rise from Thor’s skin as if they’d consume him, twisting around his wrists and ankles and throat, spreading down his torso and out through his limbs in cryptic patterns. Perhaps this part is pleasurable. Thor sighs a touch too unguardedly, relaxing into his familiar captivity once more.

It is tempting to reach out and touch. To press his fingers into the wound on his brother’s chest or to drag them up through the sluggish stream of blood that weeps from it. But Loki must first finish the binding. He places the blade in his own palm, staining himself in Thor’s shed blood, and makes the very shallowest of cuts. “My touch binds you forevermore,” he murmurs, the words an unnecessary formality, but ones he’d repeated to himself far too many times in conceiving this trick. “You are _mine_ , brother.”

Thor laughs, shaking out his hands before they flex into fists again. He watches intently - greedily - as Loki licks their shared blood from his own fingers, tasting salt and ozone. “Loki, I have always been yours.”


End file.
